Milk of Regret
by Queen-Cocaine
Summary: AU-ish. Dr. T. E. Braxton of the WBPS travels to the wizarding prison of Azkaban for an interview with the most hated killer in the wizarding world. Oneshot. Based off "Iceman; Confessions of a Mafia Hit Man".


**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. Neither do I own 'The Iceman; confessions of a Mafia Hit man' upon which this was based kind of. Meh. The song used is 'Milk of Regret' by Otep. **

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**Y**o**u** m**a**d**e** m**e** d**o** t**h**i**s  
**I **w**i**s**h **I** w**a**s **a**f**r**a**i**d **o**f **s**u**i**c**i**d**e**  
L**o**n**g** a**g**o **b**e**f**o**r**e **I** d**i**e**d**  
I **w**i**s**h **I** w**a**s **a**f**r**a**i**d **o**f **s**u**i**c**i**d**e  
**I**'m** s**t**a**r**v**i**n**g** f**o**r **a**f**f**e**c**t**i**o**n**  
Y**o**u**r** h**e**a**r**t **i**s **m**a**d**e **o**f **a**s**h**  
A**n**d **y**o**u** w**e**r**e** j**u**s**t** a **f**a**c**e **t**o **m**e  
**A** s**a**c**r**i**f**i**c**i**a**l **l**a**m**b  
**R**e**j**e**c**t**i**o**n**, **R**e**v**e**n**g**e**  
D**e**c**e**p**t**i**o**n**,** D**e**m**i**s**e**  
I **m**i**g**h**t** b**e** g**o**i**n**g **d**o**w**n **i**n **f**l**a**m**e**s

**B**u**t** y**o**u **w**i**l**l **b**u**r**n **w**i**t**h **m**e**.**

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It was pure curiosity that brought Dr. Thaddeus E. Braxton; the prized gem of the Wizarding British Psychological Society, to the wasted island of Azkaban on a rained drenched Thursday afternoon.

It was perhaps the rain that had made the crossing of the temperamental and volatile North Sea so dreadful. Or that the journey was made in a rickety excuse for a vessel held together by a few thread of magic.

Whatever the complaints of the skeletal boatman who held the unfortunate duty of rowing the psychiatrist through the capricious high-rising waves were, they remained unheard by the doctor whose mind was firmly on the slab of a building looming up ahead out of the muggy fog.

Azkaban Prison; the housing of some of the most malevolence scum in the whole of Wizard kind. Dr. Braxton's small pig-like eyes were fixed firmly on the bleak hunk of black rock that made up one of the most feared destinations on earth.

The storm did nothing to disguise the prison; any water that may have blurred Braxton's vision was quickly repelled with the charm on his glasses. The rest of him was not so lucky and by the time the ramshackle rowboat hit the rocky shores of the island with an unpleasant scrape, there was not a single part of Braxton that was not saturated with salt water.

The psychologist paid it no mind as he fell ungracefully out of the boat and skated around inelegantly on the rocks for a moment before gaining his bearings. He sent a sharp nod at the boatman who gave him a toothless grin in return before pushing off and rowing back through the mammoth waves.

Braxton shuddered to himself and set off briskly towards the sole structure on the island. The path was almost impossible to pick out; being the same dull black as everything else on the island, including the plants, but Braxton eventually made him way up the rocky mount until he stood before the filth strewn walls with Azkaban rising before him so high that the tops of it were hidden within the angry black clouds surround the island.

He knew from a previous visit to the inhabitants that there was a door, though the grime that caked the building made it impossible to distinguish where exactly the entrance was. He withdrew his wand from within his heavy soaked robes and began tapping various parts of the wall, hoping for a hint to direct him to the way in.

Ten feet away from where he was standing, a loud scraping groan sounded and Braxton started as two massive black doors pushed their way through against the grime and rust coating their hinges.

A head poked out, white and wrinkled, sharply contrasting against the black walls surrounding him. The head looked left then right and his brow furrowed as he laid eyes on Braxton. He turned up his nose at the doctor and a hand, as pale as the rest of him, reached up and pushed his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose.

A loud grating sound came from the man's throat and Braxton jumped in surprise. The grating gave way to a rather wet noise before the man hocked and spat a thick lump of mucus on the ground at Braxton's feet. "You the doc?" The man asked.

"I am." Braxton confirmed and gingerly stepped over the glob of bodily fluid on the ground and stood before the doors, getting a clearer view of the warden who guarded them. "I believe you are expecting me?"

The warden was not a big man; he was small and scrawny with a distinctly rodent-like look about him, especially around his pink twitching nose and beady eyes. Eyes which were now looking at Braxton with suspicion. "I remember you." He said finally. "You came here once, wanting to talk to the Lestrange women." He gave a wet-sounding laugh. "Won't be able to speak to her now, eh?"

Braxton gave the man a thin smile. "No, I don't suppose I can. May I enter? I am on a schedule and I only have a few hours to speak with him before the boat returns." The man didn't return the smile but stepped aside, muttering darkly as Braxton passed into the cold interior of Azkaban.

Though the dementors were removed from the position of guarding the prison after their part in the second war, Azkaban retained its impenetrable chill. Braxton shivered and dried his robes with his wand before casting a warming charm on himself. Even so, he could still feel the coldness prick against his skin.

As he followed the warden deeper into the depths, he couldn't help but feel claustrophobic as the heavy doors shut behind him with a dull thud, sealing them into the darkness. He immediately cast a _lumos_ before hurrying to catch up with the warden who had continued walking, regardless of the dark.

From somewhere beyond the circle of light surrounding him came the first of the wails and screams of the prisoners. Their anguish came in waves, slamming against him over and over again. The warden seemed utterly unaffected by the screams as he paused before a door.

"You can wait in here. I'll get _him_." The pure repugnance was clear in his voice.

Braxton nodded his consent and opened the door. The room inside was plain, unadorned and only consisting of a table with two opposing chairs. Braxton closed the door behind him and sat on the chair facing the door; the other chair being ensnared with chains that rattled threatening as he passed it.

Braxton let out a sigh and rested his forehead against his arms. He hated this place. This was only his second visit to the Wizarding prison; his first being to interview the notorious Bellatrix Lestrange. The resulting thesis won him recognition and his title as the WBPS golden boy. He was cast into the limelight, his every move followed, his every theory applauded.

Now he was immersed in his new project. The one he has wanted to do since he had heard of the story. He was in search of answers from perhaps the most infamous mass-murderer in Wizarding history.

No other had ever deceived so many for so long as this particular man had. No other had come so high and fallen as hard as this man. If Braxton was a golden boy then this man was pure platinum. He seemed utterly untouchable until the day when his carefully veiled secrets began surfacing like the countless bodies he'd buried.

Overnight he became a pariah of Wizarding society; the papers printed his name in venom, people began referring to their former hero as _him_.

The world was in a state of shock. No one could believe how badly they had been deceived and for how long. He was hated, perhaps even more than you-know-who. Mostly because of his supposed betrayal to the whole of Wizard kind.

No one could be so hated, Braxton mused, without having been loved first.

A fallen angel.

Lucifer on earth.

The boy who lived to kill.

Harry James Potter.

Footsteps were coming down the stone chamber. He could hear them. Two...no three, four, pairs of feet marching towards him. Braxton sat up straight and arranged himself into a pensive state; he liked to refer to it as his 'shrink' position.

The footsteps came closer and Braxton unconsciously tensed as the door handle turned and the door opened. The warden came in first and stood off to the side, directing the two aurors that followed him with useless remarks. "Over there. Yes, put him there. Steady....Steady...okay,"

The men ignored him and they led the figure pressed between them, over to the chair in front of Braxton. They sat him down hard and the chains immediately came to life and snaked their way over his body, rooting him in place. The aurors retreated and took a stance against the door, wands at the ready in case the prisoner moved unexpectedly.

Braxton looked at the man in front of him in curiosity. His head was bowed in front of him; matted hair that Braxton knew was black though now was indistinguishable by the amount of grime covering it, dripped down over his face like a tangled shadow. His shoulders were tense, the striped robes he wore falling off his emancipated frame. His fingers were clenching the arms of the chair so hard that the waxy yellowed skin of his knuckles was turning bone white.

Braxton cleared his throat. "Hello Mr. Potter, thank you for meeting with me. My name is Dr. Braxton."

It was like a spell had been cast over the man. His head snapped up and Braxton started at the sight of the sunken eyes, hard cold emeralds. He flicked his head off his face and straightened, if it weren't for his appearance and the chains securing him to the chair, Braxton would have thought him an ordinary man.

"It was no problem Dr. Braxton. Please, call me Harry." His voice was unexpected; as smooth and soft as velvet. It didn't seem to fit, coming from the wasted excuse of a man in front of him.

"If you wish, Harry." Braxton gave him a smile. "Now, I am going to ask you a few questions. If you don't want to answer then that's fine. I am going to be writing notes as we go, is that alright?" he asked, conjuring his writing apparatus.

"Are you a muggleborn, Dr. Braxton?" Harry asked suddenly.

Braxton frowned. "Yes I am. Why do you ask?"

Harry flashed yellowing teeth at the psychologist. "You have a clipboard; not parchment and a pen instead of a quill." He explained.

Braxton nodded. "Yes, I find it easier to write with muggle equipment. Quills are so messy, don't you find?"

"I don't recall." Harry smiled.

Braxton nodded and began his notes. "Now, I am sure we are all familiar with the details of your case. Just as a starting note, do you have any idea how many people you have killed over the years?"

"Not an exact number," Harry replied. "I guess somewhere between fifty and a hundred. Magic and muggle alike." He said it with such certainty, as if it were merely a fact.

The sky is blue.

Harry Potter killed between fifty and a hundred people.

"You show no remorse for this." Braxton noted.

"No," Harry agreed. "I don't."

"Do you know what an adrenaline rush is?" Braxton asked. Harry nodded. "Have you ever felt one before?"

"When I'm flying." Harry replied promptly. "And I suppose during sex."

"Sex?" Braxton repeated. "Sex is not exactly an adrenaline rush. Do you feel adrenaline when you kill?"

Harry shook his head. "No."

Braxton made a note. "Do you have...particular way? That you..."

"Kill?" Harry looked amused. It was a scary sight. "I prefer the muggle way. Right beneath the chin here." He tilted his head up and made a noise like a throat being slit. "Knives are so messy...don't you find?"

It was not lost on Braxton that the Potter was mocking his previous words. "I don't recall." He replied dutifully.

Harry grinned at him and gave a loud laugh. "Very good, Doc." He nodded in approval. "Ever hear how it's easier to hide in plain sight? It's like that. Killing in a muggle way meant that the wizards would look at muggles to find the killer." He explained.

"Very clever." Braxton told him. "But I can't help but suspect another motive behind using muggle means. You were brought up by muggles if I remember correctly. Your mother's sister and her husband? What was his name?"

"Dursley."

"Yes, that's the one. Tell me what it was like growing up there."

"What do you want to know?" Harry shrugged as much as the chair would allow him to. "Privet drive with all its identical perfect houses? Number four with the perfect nuclear family? Father brought home the bacon, mother kept the house tidy, one spoilt whale of a son." Harry spat through his teeth.

"And then there was you." Braxton finished. "How did they treat you?"

"They resented me," Harry smirked. "I was the freak, you know. I lived in a cupboard under the stairs until I was eleven."

Braxton raised an eyebrow at this. The saviour of the Wizarding world living in a cupboard?

Harry apparently picked up on his thought trail. "Oh yes, hard to believe isn't it? That my relatives hated me. That no one even noticed until it was time for me to go to school. By then it was too late. The seeds of hatred had been planted."

"Was any of your family abusive towards you?"

"My uncle." Harry replied promptly. "He was especially intolerant of freakishness. He thought that he could beat it out of me."

Braxton wrote this down. "Which beating do you remember as the worst?" He asked.

Harry grinned wolfishly. "Have you ever been beaten, Braxton?"

Braxton skirted the question. "We're talking about you at the moment, Harry." He reminded.

"I'm guess that you weren't." Harry continued. "Because if you were then you wouldn't have asked such a pointless question. When you're cowering on the ground with a fat man kicking your ribs in then there is no distinction with the pain. No 'bad' beatings, they're all bad."

"What about your aunt?" Braxton enquired. "How did she act towards you?"

"She was hateful and cold." Harry told him. "She would purposefully spoil my cousin just so I could watch half-starved as he stuffed himself. It was really Dudley who got screwed in the end." He laughed. "He was morbidly obese by age three."

"And your cousin? How did he act?"

"Two words:" Harry said. "Harry. Hunting."

"Ah." Braxton made a note. He cleared his throat. "I know you admitted to killing your relatives under Veritaserum at your trial. Are they your first victims?"

"I wouldn't call them 'victims'..." Harry mused. "That suggests that they didn't deserve it." He looked at Braxton with a cold stare. "After all, if I hadn't killed them, they most certainly would have killed me."

"You didn't answer the question." Braxton reminded him.

"No, I didn't." Harry looked amused again. "My first kill...hmm, so long ago." He mocked deep thought before grinning again. "But you know what they say...you never forget your first. Cedric Diggory."

Braxton checked his notes. "You claimed he was killed by Voldemort in the Tri-Wizard Tournament?"

"Wormtail." Harry corrected. "Actually, I think Wormtail was technically my first. Only I didn't know who he was at the time. He was just a stupid rat that I ended up killing in my third year."

"Did you kill animals often?" Braxton asked.

"Only in my youth," Harry explained. "It didn't give me much pleasure, I felt quite disgusted. They were helpless. But I couldn't help myself." He smiled and leant forward as much as the chair allowed him. "I used to tie two cats together by their tails and hang them over the washing line. Then I watched as they ripped each other to pieces." He laughed coldly. "Or when I was at Hogwarts and I dropped my roommate's toad off the Astronomy Tower. Do you know what happened when you drop a toad from a great height?" He asked.

"Splat?" Braxton guessed.

"Correct!" Harry crowed. "A great green splatter all over the ground. I also chucked Dudley's pet turtle through the greenhouse, just to see if the shell would protect it from the glass. It didn't." He shook his head as if imagining fond memories.

"Was your cousin upset at this?" Braxton asked; he felt pleased at how the interview was going.

"I told him he did it during a temper tantrum." Harry smirked. "He never was very bright. That's why he ran straight at the dementors."

"This was before your trial, correct?" Braxton checked his notes again. "In your fifth year."

"Ever see someone get the kiss, Brax?"

Braxton ignored the shortening of his name and shook his head.

"Perhaps one of my fondest memories." Harry said with a pleasured distant look on his face. "Poor Big D was never the same after it, of course." He chuckled gently at the jest.

"You said at the trial that you cast a patronus but it was too late to save your cousin. Later you admitted that you intentionally stood by and watched your cousin get the kiss. You didn't kill Dudley until much later; before or after you killed your aunt and uncle?"

"Before." Harry answered. "A single shot, straight to his empty head. Bang. It was a waste of hospital resources, what was I supposed to do?" He joked.

"Do you remember when it was that you first showed signs of psychopathic behaviour? When the killing of the animals began?"

"I don't remember." Harry said honestly, though Braxton severely doubted the genuineness of it.

He re-read Harry's biography to find his next question. "You admitted killed your old headmaster in your sixth year?"

Harry nodded. "I told them that I was under a _Petrificus Totalus_ and lying beneath my invisibility cloak. Helpless. I told them that Snape killed Dumbledore. No," He shook his head. "I put _him_ under a spell, and then I pushed him off the side. I took off the spell exactly three seconds before he hit the ground. He didn't splat as well as Trevor did."

"Do you regret it?" Braxton asked.

Harry shook his head. "I don't regret a single one."

"You killed the Dark Lord and was hailed as a hero everywhere. You married your best friend's sister, Ginny Weasley and you had three children. How was your family life?"

"Perfect." Answered Harry dully.

"Did you family ever have any inclination of your homicidal tendencies?"

"Not particularly."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I don't like the term 'domestic violence'. " Harry began. "But it is the closest thing I can use to describe it. Ginny was a saint for putting up with it. She thought it was some sort of mental scar left over from the war. I never told her any different."

"Did you love your wife?" Braxton asked.

"I loved her, yes." Harry said. "But at the same time I hated her. When I was mad I hated her and I would hit her again and again until she couldn't move."

"Like your uncle did to you?" Braxton put in.

Harry smiled thinly. "Exactly like that. It was the abuse more than anything that caused my daughter to hate me."

"You love your children?"

"More than anything." Harry said passionately. "I would kill for my children. Everyone in this room I would kill for my children."

The aurors tensed up.

Harry laughed. "I'm not going to. I meant figuratively. If I had to kill you for my children I would do it without a second thought. Even if I didn't want to."

"Do you?" Braxton ventured.

Harry looked at him for a moment silently. "No." He said finally. "Not particularly, you don't seem like a bad sort."

"What kind of people did you want to kill? I mean why did you kill them?"

"It depends," Harry tilted his head in thought. "On my mood on the day I suppose. One day I would kill someone for looking at me the wrong way, or else I might be passive and forgive them for bumping into me. It came down to luck. For them." He snickered.

Braxton surveyed him. "Are you lonely, Harry?"

Harry stopped laughing. "I grew up alone and hated, I'm alone and hated now." He said thoughtfully. "My life has come full circle. I guess that means it's time for me to die." He nodded firmly. "It's scheduled in a week, you know." He added.

"Yes. Yes it is." Braxton said. He sombrely gathered up his writing utensils and the spare bits of paper. "Thank you for your time, Harry. You were very informative."

"Would you come to my funeral, Dr. Braxton?" Harry asked abruptly.

Braxton surveyed him over his glasses.

"Only, I think you would be very lonely there." Harry looked at him. "I'm not very popular nowadays."

Braxton hesitated before nodding. "Very well. I will be there." He stood. "Goodbye Harry."

Just before he reached the door Harry called out to him. "Oh and Brax?"

Braxton turned. Harry smirked at him and for the first time Braxton saw a spark in his flat emerald eyes. "Good luck on your thesis."

Braxton nodded his thanks and allowed himself to be escorted out of Azkaban by the warden. Harry Potter was an interesting character indeed; it was brilliant material for his paper. If it were true of course; Braxton knew very well that psychopaths tended to say what they thought the other person wanted to hear.

Even so, it would be an informative thesis; glimpsing into the mind of one of the most notorious serial killer in Wizard History. It would build upon his golden boy status and propel him into psychologist stardom. He would be known as the last man ever to interview the boy-who-lived.

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**J**u**s**t** s**m**i**l**e **a**n**d** b**r**e**a**t**h**e  
**T**e**l**l **t**h**e**m**:** w**e** n**e**v**e**r **m**a**t**t**e**r**e**d **a**n**y**w**a**y**

**N**o** o**n**e **w**i**l**l **e**v**e**r **k**n**o**w**.**.**.

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_**Oh god, what a lame ending. Sorry about that but my fingers are sore and I have class in about half an hour. So kind of a random plot bunny that popped up during my psychology lab; we were watching a documentary on **__**Richard "The Iceman" Kuklinski who, for those not in the know, was a mafia hit man who claims to have killed between 100 and 130 people over a period of about 30 years. We were debating his sociopathic and psychopathic tendencies and I had the idea of portraying Harry like that. No idea why lol. Anyways; I'm not a trained psychologist (not yet at least) but what I do know is that psychopaths tend to answer questions how they think the person wants the questions answered. You can't tell if Harry is lying about any of this. I can't either. Only he will ever know...**_

_**I see Hell in your eyes....**_

_**Love Queen Cocaine.**_

_**xoxo**_


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